


at least the war is over

by tenderthings



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fictober 2017, Gen, King Alistair, Surrogate Father!Alistair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 19:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12489080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderthings/pseuds/tenderthings
Summary: Alistair may have been the king, but he proved to be a rather fanciful father too, much to the dismay of those around him.(in which Alistair does what his uncle failed to do for him.)





	at least the war is over

 

* * *

 

Alistair may have been the king, but he proved to be a rather fanciful father too, much to the dismay of those around him.

When the boy first came to him, he was a shy thing.

Small and suddenly alone, parted from his parents in a foreign country and left in the care of a man he did not know, it was no wonder why he was so afraid. It was heartbreaking and more than a little difficult during those first few weeks. Alistair, however, was nothing like his uncle.

Though he may have loved and respected Eamon, Alistair refused to listen to his counsel or repeat his choices. From the very beginning, he ignored the rumors and welcomed the boy with open arms, choosing to love, educate, and cherish him openly rather than in secret.

Alistair didn’t know what he was really doing, of course. Being a parent, much less a guardian, wasn’t something he ever expected out of his life. But then again, there was nothing about his life he expected. To be a bastard king and to a be Grey Warden, he took what he was given and carried on. However, in this case, there was a single silver lining.

Alistair had the benefit of a childhood filled with amusing himself. The games he came up with, the pranks he played, the stories he conjured up—his best friend was his imagination and after he joined the Chantry, the many dull hours spent in his head were a saving grace. He still falls back into the habit even now, during the worst of the small council meetings. And yes, it was a  _bad_ habit, but evidently a very useful skill when it came to child-rearing.

Small children are a lot easier to amuse than adults, and gentler critics too. Most of the things Alistair said went over his little head, but once he began to laugh at the nonsense Alistair spouted, the less afraid he seemed.

It tugged at something inside Alistair he didn’t think was there—watching the little elf’s eyes widen with wonder as he hung on every word Alistair said. It was all, of course, utter hog-wash, but the castle was old and Denerim itself was still in a ghastly state. Any mind could wander into over-thinking when the halls were at their quietest.

Stuffy, old, and especially dusty, Alistair found a way to make his bittersweet birthright a better place for at least someone.

Ghosts and ghouls were too real for him, but imps and house sprites were not.

_The creaks in the many stairs of the palace were in fact the building saying “ouch”; the hallowing breeze at night was merely the sound of a giant’s whisper from a country away._

_The castle was created by dragons and it could only ever be destroyed by dragons, but they’d never do such a thing._

_The legs of his big bed were so high so that if the floor ever melted, he’d be safe._

_There was a legend about the well in the garden, a well-spring of beauty and wisdom that the queen drank from._

_An old tall-tale about the moons Eamon once told Alistair, weaved by fish-wives generations ago._

_A supposed rumor about treasure hidden beneath the floorboards, though it has never been found because it was claimed by a mouse king._

_The royal cook was in fact a witch who had never made a proper broth in his life; the footmen were in fact toads who’d been blessed by said cook._

And, of course—  _The story of the boy’s mother, the Warden Commander of Ferelden, and his father, the rogue Antivan Crow._

There were fables and characters for just about anything a child could believe in. And he believed in them.

—He believed in them so much so, that even though most children were afraid of the worst areas within the castle, he dared to explore. In fact, the boy loved those dark secrets so much, there was a few good times his nurses lost track of him.

Alistair would have never thought that panic-induced cold sweat could ever be associated with a good memory, like that of the day he spent looking for that little boy, only to be find under his bed, sound asleep. Apparently, he had inherited his mother’s knack for making Alistair worried sick, and that worry would never cease

No matter how safe and playful he made the boy’s life be, the castle would always a remain castle. As king—and it is hard, even years later to think of himself as such—Alistair decreed the boy a favorite, in lieu of noble blood or rank. His advisers disapproved, loudly and constantly.

A child at court was a distraction, they had said, even one small as him. Anora as well had her own concerns and voiced them, but Alistair made a promise to his friend and he intended to keep it.

People would always to talk, especially amongst the blue-blooded.

For those who had known the mysterious Dalish Warden before she disappeared, they whispered that the child had the look of his mother. The ears, of course, were the greatest give away and the thing they cared most about. Very few took in account of the boy’s coloring or the slight accent he carried, though that would eventually wane over time.

No, what they carried about was the fact that he was an elf, that Alistair adored him, and that, if you closed both of your bloody eyes, he too held a gleam of the king.

He did not. The question of paternity was never a question; he loved his friend and now his friend is gone, onto a darker, colder journey. The truth about that, and who was the child’s true father, was less a secret and more of a private concern. Even one as beloved as the nation’s hero had enemies.

The whispers will never cease. Alistair knows this. And one day, León will stop listening to the fairytales Alistair created and start believing in crueler lies. Until then, however, Alistair will do what Eamon failed to do years ago—his best.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> title from "in our bedroom after war" by stars
> 
> (can you tell that I don't care for Eamon very much?)


End file.
